


Something Bitter, Something Sweet

by MxMearcstapa



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Bittersweet, Blue Lions Girls Bonding Time!, Blue Lions Students as Family (Fire Emblem), Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route Spoilers, Flayn is a Blue Lion too dammit, Found Family, Friendship, Gen, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, I live to make up Faerghus holidays, It's a cute baking fic!, Minor Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Glenn Fraldarius, Surprise! - Freeform, Valentine's Day, With some hidden whumps!, did you know there's no & tag with the Lions girls--because that's criminally offensive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-17 20:54:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29478036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MxMearcstapa/pseuds/MxMearcstapa
Summary: Ingrid agrees to follow her classmates into the kitchen. She regularly follows them into battle, so how is this any different? And if the professor can slice open the sky with a holy sword, surely Ingrid can make sweets without bringing some doom upon them.She hopes.In which the Blue Lions girls make fudge together.
Relationships: Ingrid Brandl Galatea & Mercedes von Martritz & Annette Fantine Dominic & Flayn
Comments: 6
Kudos: 18





	Something Bitter, Something Sweet

**Author's Note:**

> My Valentine's piece, fashionably late, and late for the Discord event that inspired it :'D Fun facts--I learned to make fudge for this piece asdfjhkdlj  
> Please enjoy this wholesome sweets-making fun! And remember to spread love (and not covid!)~

Ingrid doesn’t cook, not really.

It’s not that she doesn’t respect or appreciate the labor that goes into it—far from it—but she’s always preferred the eating of food over the making of it, and that’s part of the problem. Anything she’s ever made there’s been ultimately less of than she intended, between the samples and taste tests. And besides that, there’s a knowledge or a skill, an exactness and adaptability that’s required to cook that she’s always admired but never possessed. It’s undeniably an art; it’s just not _her_ art.

So when Mercedes and Annette ask her to make sweets with them, Ingrid is more than a little surprised.

She protests. She’ll only get in the way. They’re certain to make more progress without her. But they’re so earnest, so enthusiastic that Ingrid can’t help but acquiesce. And if she’s being honest, the mood at the monastery has been a little…strange as of late. Had she not witnessed the events of the last battle herself, Ingrid might not have believed it—dark magic, talk of the goddess, the professor’s…changes. Even having lived through it, Ingrid finds it hard to believe. Since then, Professor Eisner has been so busy in conferences with Lady Rhea that they’ve hardly had a chance to say hello to her, much less have a conversation about what happened.

So Ingrid agrees to follow her classmates into the kitchen. She regularly follows them into battle, so how is this any different? And if the professor can slice open the sky with a holy sword, surely Ingrid can make sweets without bringing some doom upon them.

She hopes.

She trails behind Annette and Mercedes into the dining hall and finds it empty but for a single person. Behind the counter, Flayn waves to them. Her presence gives Ingrid a small pause, and she wishes it didn’t. Flayn’s cooking is reputed to be…well, “awful” doesn’t quite cover the spectrum of words that could and have been used to describe the food she makes—but Flayn has been learning to cook with Dedue, and that’s got to count for _something,_ right? With Mercedes and Annette alongside them, surely whatever the end result is, it will at least be edible.

Mercedes smiles at them, and Annette bounces in place. Ingrid smiles nervously back.

“Today we’ll be making fudge…”

“…for the Ides of Cethleann!”

Ingrid’s smile drops.

“The—the _what,_ ” Flayn sputters. She clears her throat. “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of this—event?”

The sigh that forms in Ingrid’s chest is too heavy to hold back, so she lets it loose. The Ides of Cethleann. She had forgotten them. Again. Or once again willfully ignored them—she hasn’t decided which yet.

Annette nods. “That’s not too surprising. It’s generally only celebrated in Faerghus.”

Flayn’s brow is so tightly knitted that it’s almost comical. Ingrid is sure her own face bears a similar expression, but something about seeing Flayn so deeply concerned makes her want to laugh. She stifles the feeling with a cough into her fist.

Mercedes tilts her head, admirably patient. “It might seem a little unusual, Flayn, but I’ll do my best to explain: the story goes that during the War of Heroes, a corrupt ruler in the region that became Fhirdiad outlawed marriage. His hope was that instead of falling in love, the young people would join as soldiers in the fight against Saint Seiros. Obviously, that whole concept is silly, and of course it didn’t work. It is said that Saint Cethleann walked among the soldiers in secret, performing marriages, giving out enchanted flowers that bloomed despite the cold and treats so sweet they were rumored to have been blessed by the goddess herself—all to keep the spirit of love alive.”

“That is…quite romantic,” Flayn says, a cautious smile on her face. She tugs on the ends of her sleeves but doesn’t break eye contact. “However—and I don’t mean to be rude, but—I am quite certain that Saint Cethleann never did such things.”

“Probably not,” Annette conceeds, her spirit undampened. “It was so long ago that some things are bound to have changed in the retelling. The point is, the story inspires people. So every year, around this time of year in Faerghus, we exchange flowers and sweets with people we love in honor of Saint Cethleann’s deeds—so Mercie and I thought it would be fun for us to cook up some tasty treats for our classmates! And, um, anyone else we might—if there is, I mean, someone you—well, uhhh, you know what I mean.”

She ducks her head, flushing crimson. Mercedes puts a hand on her shoulder.

“For our classmates, and anyone else you’d like to share with, in the spirit of the Ides.”

Ingrid suppresses her second sigh. She does not care for the Ides. They have brought her nothing but aggravation since Sylvain was old enough to speak (she makes a note to find him as soon as she’s done here), and nothing but sadness since Glenn—

She stops. Inhales deeply. She’s told Mercedes and Annette both about Glenn before. Perhaps they hadn’t considered it when they asked her to join them. But Ingrid dismisses that idea quickly—these two are nothing if not thoughtful, and it’s more likely than anything else that they thought this might be fun to do together, or else they wouldn’t have invited her. Maybe, she hopes, this could be the start of a new tradition, something happier than chasing Sylvain about by day and secluding herself by night. Thanks to Annette and Mercedes, she’s tried and found a new appreciation for things like make-up and tea parties—to share a little joy in this strange time, she can try making sweets, too.

Ingrid lifts her braid and twists it into a bun.

“How do we start?” she asks.

Annette claps her hands and squeals, and Mercedes smiles.

“First we’ll need to gather the ingredients.”

They join Flayn behind the counter. Annette lists off ingredients, and Ingrid listens, squeezing and flexing her fingers. It doesn’t sound too hard. She’s heard of most of them. She just, uh, has no idea where they’re kept. She offers to help carry them back if Annette can show her where they are, and Annette agrees with cheer.

When they return, Mercedes and Flayn have pulled out a pot, a bowl, and a few pans that seem too decorative to have a use. Mercedes has her hands tucked behind her, her hair pulled back in a way that reminds Ingrid of someone she can’t quite recall. Flayn’s long curls have been bound into tight, round buns on either side of her head, and with her sleeves rolled up, her dress looks even puffier. Annette sets the ingredients she’s holding on the counter nearby and rolls up her sleeves, and Ingrid follows suit.

“Now, ideally, we’d want to be making chocolate fudge, because it’s soooo good, but! We don’t have any cocoa powder,” Annette says, shoulders slumping a little. She perks up before she continues, as though determined to succeed no matter the setbacks, and Ingrid has to admire her dedication. “But I think that plain old fudge will still be plenty appreciated! It’s a sweet treat, and we can even make it into some cute shapes or press a couple flower petals in. Right, Mercie?”

Mercedes nods. “Yes, chocolate fudge would be wonderful. If only we had…this!”

From behind her back, she produces a small container of brown powder. Annette gasps and leans in, eyes wide. Ingrid’s never seen cocoa powder before—actually, she’s not sure she’s even heard of it before—but Annette looks the way Felix does when he sees a well-crafted sword, so she feels like she ought to be appreciative.

“Whoa, Mercie, where’d you get that?! It must have been so expensive!”

“I’ve been saving up for just such an occasion.”

Annette squeals. “We’re in for some super sweet treats now! Oh! We can still do the cute shapes and flower petals and—ack, I haven’t even thought about what I want mine to look like!”

As Mercedes lights the stove and Annette starts pouring different items into a pot, Ingrid and Flayn exchange nervous smiles. Up until this point, the process has been largely theoretical, and it _sounds_ like it could be fun, but they have absolutely no idea what they should be doing to help.

Fortunately, Mercedes seems aware of that, and she beckons them forward.

“Ingrid, would you mind stirring the pot? Flayn, I’ll need your help with the next step.”

She holds a wooden spoon out to Ingrid without waiting for a confirmation. Ingrid sees her hand reach out and take the spoon before she decides she will. It’s a small thing, innocuous, benign. She’s held larger and more dangerous weapons by far—so why does a little wooden spoon make her heart race?

“Quickly now, or it’ll burn,” Mercedes says. Ingrid swallows her nerves and sticks the spoon into the pot.

“Like this?”

“Just like that. Keep stirring until it boils.”

Ingrid nods. Easy.

Mercedes walks out of the kitchen with Flayn and the bowl, and Ingrid catches something about a well as they leave. Annette peeks over at Ingrid’s pot, takes a deep breath, and nods in approval.

“I’m so glad Mercie had that cocoa powder—doesn’t it smell so good?”

Ingrid sniffs lightly. The smell is earthy and sweet and makes her mouth water. She wonders what it’d taste like at this stage and decides, as the air above the pot shimmers with heat, that it’s probably not worth finding out. Beside her, Annette startles, hands covering her cheeks.

“Oh no! I forgot to actually gather the petals! I’ll be right back, Ingrid!”

Before Ingrid can protest, Annette dashes out the side door.

Ingrid looks around.

She’s alone in the kitchen.

With a deep breath, she tightens her grip on the wood spoon. Surely she can handle this. She’s commanded her own squad of soldiers atop an unruly pegasus in inclement weather. She can most definitely stir a pot until it boils.

A few small bubbles rise to the surface of the mixture, and Ingrid stops stirring, surprised. As she does, more bubbles rise and rupture.

She looks around again.

No one has yet returned.

“Um, Annette?” she calls.

Only the pot answers her, softly gurgling.

Her shoulders tense, the panic spiking. She sticks the spoon back in the pot and stirs roughly, lacking any other instruction. For a moment, it seems to have worked—the bubbles all but disappear, lost in the swirling waves of the dark mixture—and then they rise back up in full force. Despite herself, Ingrid squeaks and stirs faster.

With increasing urgency, she calls, “Annette? Mercedes? _Flayn_ _?_ ”

Is she supposed to keep stirring? Does she take it off the heat? Or should she—

“Oh, right on time!” Mercedes says. Ingrid doesn’t bother to hide her relief. She holds the spoon out to Mercedes and backs away from the stove as quickly as she can. Mercedes flashes her a quick smile before surveying the pot. “You did well, Ingrid. Flayn, could you bring the bowl, please?”

Flayn does, setting the bowl on the counter with a solemnity befitting its new fullness—they must have gone to the well to fill it. Ingrid wishes they had mentioned where they were going, but she supposes it doesn’t matter much now. They’re back, and she can breathe deeply.

As she watches Mercedes skim the top of the mixture and drop it in the bowl, Ingrid’s nerves dissolve into curiosity. What is Mercedes doing? Will the whole bowl have to be transferred in such small increments? And how did anyone ever conceive of such a convoluted process? The dark drop in the bowl solidifies into a ball, and when Mercedes pulls it out, the ball flattens. She nods—apparently that was the desired outcome?—sets the spoon aside, and takes the pot off the heat. With thundering steps, Annette speeds back into the kitchen, hair windswept, arms full of flowers.

“I couldn’t—decide which—to bring,” she pants. “So I brought…a bunch.”

“You’re just in time to cool the fudge, Annie,” Mercedes tells her. Annette sighs in relief and sets the flowers on the counter. She smooths her hair back, holds her hands out, and inhales. The air hums with magic as a light breeze blows through the kitchen, and the heat lines over the pot diminish.

Annette lowers her hands. “How’s that, Mercie?”

“Perfect, Annie.” She turns to Flayn and Ingrid. “Now, we beat the mixture.”

Flayn’s brow crinkles. She lifts the wooden spoon from the counter and poises uncertainly to strike. Gently, Mercedes pulls the spoon from her grasp, flips it upside down, and hands it back to her.

“That just means we’re going to stir it again.”

Flayn flushes. “Of—of course! I recall that from my studies. I merely acted in jest.”

“Of course,” Mercedes says. “We’ll be stirring for a long time—until the mixture loses its shine. Are you sure you’re up for it?”

Flayn nods emphatically. “Need I remind you I have been training with a master chef? I am capable of stirring for days!”

She stirs. And stirs. And _stirs_ _._ It feels almost like days, watching sweat form on her brow, watching the sheen on the fudge slowly fade. After a time, Flayn sets the spoon down and wipes her forehead.

“I must admit my arm is becoming quite sore.”

Mercedes nods. “That’s to be expected, even for a master’s apprentice—let me take over for you.”

And as she does, Annette points out the decorative pans.

“We’ll be pouring them into these to shape them—it’s a lot quicker than doing it by hand. What shape do you want to make, Ingrid?”

There’s quite a few—stars, hearts, even some Crests—but as soon as Ingrid sees the little horse head molds, she knows what she wants. She points at them and flushes.

“These ones are…cute.”

Annette winks. “Ooooh, good choice!”

Mercedes pours the fudge into their chosen molds, and Ingrid watches hers settle, creeping into the horse’s ear and nose.

“And now we may eat it?” Flayn asks.

Mercedes shakes her head. “Now we wait for it to cool.”

The disappointment seems shared between them.

“Well, unless we could find a way to cool it faster,” Annette says. “Maybe if we put it by a window? It’s pretty cold outside.”

Ingrid blinks. “I know a little ice magic—could that work?”

“Oh, absolutely! That’s pretty handy, Ingrid—we’ll have to invite you to make sweets with us more often,” Annette says with a wink.

Flayn clears her throat. Annette and Mercedes giggle.

“Of course we couldn’t do it without you, too, Flayn.”

Ingrid smiles as she cradles each pan in her hands and concentrates, delicate ice crystals dusting the outside of the mold. She looks up when she’s done, and the other girls nod encouragingly. Hesitantly, she pulls out a tiny fudge horse and pops it into her mouth.

It’s _delicious._

It’s soft and sweet and it melts in her mouth, and for a moment, Ingrid can’t speak, because the taste of smooth, chocolatey fudge is all she can focus on. It must show on her face though, because the other girls grab for pieces of their own, and it’s clear from their expressions that Ingrid is not the only one who appreciates what they’ve made.

She can’t remember the last time she’s tasted anything so sweet.

Actually, she can.

Shortly before he left for Duscur, Glenn gave her a small box of chocolates, a kiss on the forehead, and a cocky smile. The chocolates were harder, with a soft inside—like him, he joked. Ingrid kept a brave face until he was gone, and then, in the privacy of her room, consumed the entire box in a tear-fueled flurry. The stomach pain that followed was nothing compared to the heartbreak.

The memory feels at once both ancient and familiar. Unbidden tears well in her eyes.

“I know, right?” Annette says. “It’s so good you could cry!”

Ingrid looks down. A warm hand presses to her back as a small one reaches out to take hers.

Ingrid looks up. Mercedes and Flayn are looking at her with kind, concerned eyes.

Annette freezes. “Oh my gosh. It wasn’t about the fudge at all, was it? I’m so sorry, Ingrid.”

And then Ingrid can’t breathe, smothered by a group hug. She lets herself rest for a few precious moments, lets a few tears fall and fade into the moment, before gently untangling from her classmates.

“Thank you.” She wipes her eyes and smiles. “This has been enjoyable, despite how it looks.”

The smiles she’s met with are soft. Hopeful. Annette looks at their handiwork with a sudden intensity and groans.

“Oh _no!_ We forgot to use the flower petals!”

Flayn looks between the flowers and the fudge. “Is it too late to add them in?”

Annette’s nod is defeated. “And after I went through so much trouble to get them.”

“You know,” Ingrid says. She pulls another out another fudge horse and holds it up. “No one has to know we made any without the petals.”

She tips her head back and stuffs the sweet into her mouth. Her classmates—her _friends_ —giggle.

They decide to make a second batch.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! <3 If you enjoyed this piece, please leave a comment! I hope you had a good weekend and that you're somewhere safe and warm. <3


End file.
